Quartier Rouge
by DezoPenguin
Summary: A young Mordentish visitor to Chateaufaux finds himself caught up in the search for whomever or whatever has caused the bloody disappearances of eight people from the city's Old Quarter.
1. Chapter 1

_**From the journal of Alec Jocelyn:**_

Foreign travel, they say, enlightens a man, bringing him a better understanding of the world as well as a deeper appreciation for his home. It was in this spirit that I had set out from my residence in Mordentshire with the intention of traveling the surrounding lands—a sort of Grand Tour, if you will.

To ease my going, I bore with me letters of introduction to a variety of my uncle's foreign correspondents and business associates. Owing to these, I found myself on my second night in Chateaufaux dining as a guest of Monsieur le Baron Stephane Debray. It was, I admit, a dry affair, consisting of merchants and their spouses, whether titled or not. All were more concerned with business than the enjoyment of a social occasion, and thus I said little while listening to much. This behavior apparently caught the eye of another young man, for he approached me once we had retired to the card room after dinner.

"I daresay," he said languidly, "that if one were possessed of a sufficient imagination, it might be possible to dream that this was a social gathering rather than a business conference, but I confess that it is beyond my powers."

I could not resist a faint smile.

"You are a harsh man, Monsieur...Renard, was it not?"

"Quite so. Etienne Renard."

"But surely you are no merchant." His pastel-blue coat, generously embroidered in gold, and buff knee-breeches were more suited to a Port-a-Lucine dandy than a sober man of finance, as did his youth—no more than my own twenty-eight and perhaps less, though in general the Dementlieuse seemed better-preserved than we Mordentish, perhaps due to their labors being entirely mental when they labored at all. Certainly, Etienne Renard appeared to have exerted himself only in riding to the hunt and in a fencer's gymnasium, and that not often.

He verified my assessment with a mocking laugh.

"Indeed not! I am the nephew of Sebastian Renard, one of our dear host's boon business rivals. My father, his brother, is the Marquis de Perigon. As my esteemed uncle was a third son, he went into trade to support himself in his preferred lifestyle. As I am known to be...visiting...him, I must make my presence felt here so as not to cast dishonor on his name before his peers." Renard's tone made it clear that he did not consider these men and women in any way _his_ peers.

"How generous of you."

Renard laughed again, apparently amused by my sarcasm.

"Is it not! But perhaps the spirit of profit-making redolent through this evening has spread to me. After all, I have made your acquaintance, M. Jocelyn."

"We have met, so much is true."

Renard smiled.

"Cautious, aren't you—a Mordentish trait if ever I heard one. But for my own part I must bear up the honor of Dementlieu. You are a guest in this country, and must be given proper entertainment. In an hour's time, when this charming gala creaks and groans to a halt, I attend a _salon_ at Mlle. Charest's. Say that you will join me."

I admit it was ironic. Etienne Renard represented much of what I was prepared to dislike in the nobles of this country: an attitude of superiority towards others supported only by boredom and indolence. Yet for some reason I was drawn to him, perhaps because I appreciated a man who could laugh at himself in a way many more worthy souls of both our lands could not.

Thus it was that as the evening settled in towards midnight, I found myself in a baroquely furnished apartment, in the company of a half-dozen young nobles. I was received with some curiosity, and occasional scorn—one perfumed and pomaded fop regarded me archly through a quizzing-glass as if I was some odd species of animal which had unaccountably appeared before him. Before I could take offense, an exquisitely beautiful girl offered me a glass of absinthe. I declined with as much courtesy as I could manage, but she still pouted prettily at me.

"Etienne, have you gone and brought us a puritan?" she said.

"M. Jocelyn is from Mordent, Victorine. He has not yet entered into all our little vices."

"A pity. _I_ say it is not a party until the Green Fairy dances. But he is handsome, so I shall forgive him."

The glass of wine I was provided was of a rare vintage, fabulously old and, quite frankly, nearly as potent as the absinthe would have been.

"Mordent," said the dandy with the quizzing-glass. "Perhaps in that land of ghosts and witches he's used to having a decent set of eveningwear conjured upon him—"

"Don't be tiresome, Lucien," snapped another man, this one in hunter green. "It's not as if you could find Mordent on a map, even if you exerted yourself sufficiently to learn to read."

"Besides which," I added, "any sensible Mordentishman has nothing to do with magic. There's enough evil in the world without inviting it to dinner."

"Oh, please," chided the second female among the guests, a blonde whose superb figure and plunging decolletage somehow did not lend her half of the seductive force of Victorine Charest's manner. "Magic is a simple force of nature, nothing more, to be manipulated and used by rational minds."

"So speaks the loyal daughter!" Renard laughed. I glanced at him curiously, and he explained, "Claudine's father holds a chair in Arcane Studies at the University of Dementlieu. Professor Gerard is well-known for his dispassionate, mechanistic approach to his topic."

"Well...not precisely _dispassionate_," Victorine purred, making Renard laugh again.

"True enough; else he'd never have fought that duel last month with Henri de Guillard."

"The master of the local chapter of La Societe de Legerdemain," supplied the man in green. "As suits a leader of an order of stage magicians, he defended the mystical and sublime nature of arcane study. Words led to insults, and as both were gentlemen, there came the duel, with spells the weapon of choice. Professor Gerard won, of course. He's an expert in countermagic."

"It's too bad we didn't hear about it until it was all over. It would have made rare entertainment," drawled Lucien.

"You're all simply horrid!" exclaimed the professor's daughter.

"Yes," Renard agreed, "I suppose we are."

"I hope," Victorine said softly, "that our Mordentish guest does not find us so." I was suddenly struck by how close she was to me, aware of the supple form beneath the pearl-hued silk. The room seemed to grow uncomfortably warm.

"No, indeed I do not."

Someone chuckled—Renard? Lucien?—I could not say. Indeed, it became hard to concentrate on anything at all. Had the wine been that potent a vintage? I had only had two glasses, hadn't I?

I remember very little else of the night beyond images of velvet black hair and tawny skin shining in the light of a dozen candles. Then came the shock of cold night air, the roughness of cobbled streets, something slick and wet under my hands...

Screams...

Shouts...

Rough hands laying hold of me...

And lastly, the clang of iron.

~X X X~

I awoke in a stinking oubliette, the stone floor slick with slime. The wan light of dawn filtered through a barred window ten feet above the floor., A wooden pallet was the only furnishing, the door of iron with a foot-square grillwork in its upper half. The metal was lightly brushed with rust, but I found that rather than holding any promise of weakness in my captivity it merely emphasized the sense of hopelessness and decay that pervaded all. My wrists were fettered tightly, the manacles biting into the flesh and connected to the wall by heavy chains. Fear and anger both swelled within me, dueling for command. Anger won out at first, and I shouted.

"Hey! Is anyone there?"

I shook my arms, making the chains rattle.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Be silent, you murdering lunatic!" a voice roared from outside my cell.

_Lunatic?_ I thought. _Murdering?_

Another memory brushed against me, the sickly-sweet copper scent of fresh-spilled blood.

"Whom am I supposed to have murdered?"

"Whom?" The voice gave a sharp, barking laugh. "Didn't you even know their names?"

_Their_ names? Not one person but several?

_What had happened last night?_

"But then, how could you? How could one know and hate so many people?"

My gorge rose, and fear with it, driving out the defiant anger.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I pleaded.

"He doesn't know what I'm talking about! Eight people dead in two weeks, and he doesn't know what I'm talking about! Five women and three men!"

"I _don't_ know! You have to believe me!"

"Perhaps you do not. Perhaps you are but one more madman fit for our asylum. But do not worry. We are humane in Dementlieu. You will not be condemned to live out your life in a lunatic's cell. Madman or not, the guillotine is keen and swift!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Come, monsieur, I am being reasonable. Let us know what you have done with the bodies and the State is prepared to show you some small kindnesses in return."

"For the hundredth time, Inspector, I have no idea what became of the bodies because I have no knowledge of these crimes. I am innocent of these charges!"

Within an hour of my waking, I had been dragged from my cell and taken, wrists shackled behind my back, to a small, windowless room where, for the better part of three hours, _M. l'Inspecteur_ St.-Denis had browbeaten, threatened, and cajoled in an attempt to wring information, perhaps a confession, from me. To him it seemed I was a monster, the mad Mordentishman who had butchered eight citizens of Chateaufaux. My protests of innocence were ignored, my requests for information laughed at. My mouth ached where he had struck me; crusted blood stained my chin.

It also stained my shirt and trousers, but not from any wound of mine. That was what caused genuine fear. I had no idea how I had come to be drenched in the blood of another.

A knock at the door interrupted the Inspector's words.

"What is it?"

"M. l'Inspecteur, it is the prisoner's advocate."

"_What?_"

The door opened, and a slender woman with threads of white shot through chestnut hair pushed past a uniformed _gendarme_.

"It will not do, you know. It simply won't do." She shook her head sadly at St.-Denis as a parent will at a disobedient child.

"He stands here drenched in gore, Mme. de Langois, and you say—"

"Captain Thoubald has familiarized me with the circumstances of the arrest. M. Jocelyn was found sprawled unconscious in a pool of blood. Of course he would be drenched in it."

"And the scratches on his back and arms? His victim fought for her life—"

"There are no scratches on his shirt, Inspector. Do you claim that M. Jocelyn murdered his victim, disposed of the body, then put a fresh shirt on and conveniently collapsed in the only evidence of his crime? Will you be so ungentlemanly as to make me call a witness to explain how he obtained those scratches?"

I blushed as memories crowded in upon me.

"M. Jocelyn," the advocate continued with relentless insistence, "attended an entertainment with a number of our local gentry last night. He indulged too heavily in wine. He indulged perhaps not heavily enough in other vices, for he staggered intoxicated from the premises, until at last he was overcome by liquor and recent exertions and collapsed. He chose a poor location to do so, that is all. You have no case."

"Mme. de Langois, he is the only suspect in these atrocious disappearances. The people of Chateaufaux are calling the Old Quarter '_Quartier Rouge_' because of all the spilled blood."

"He arrived in Chateaufaux the day before yesterday; you can check his registration at the Silver Coach-House to verify this. He is not a suspect; with the frequency of these crimes it would be proven by another body before you could bring him to trial. You will impress no one, soothe no public fears by bringing charges."

At no time did Mme. de Langois raise her voice, but her words were like the blows of a blacksmith's hammer, ringing and inexorable. Rage and frustration crossed the Inspector's face; his jaw quivered with emotion beneath his drooping moustache. A thousand violent words went unsaid, until finally his fury gave way beneath the advocate's will, and St.-Denis sagged back in his chair in defeat.

"Very well. _Gendarme_, undo M. Jocelyn's shackles and fetch his personal possessions. He is free to go."

In a moment my manacled wrists were freed, my pocket-watch, clasp-knife, and surprisingly still full money pouch were returned, and I was escorted to a waiting carriage by Mme. de Langois. Waiting inside for us I was shocked to find Etienne Renard.

"_Sacre!_ You need a bath, my Mordentish friend," he exclaimed, waving a scented handkerchief beneath his nose. "As for those clothes, please, do the world a favor and have them burned _tout de suite_."

"Renard, what are you doing here? For that matter, Mme. de Langois, while I appreciate your timely assistance, how did you come to offer it?"

"As you would no doubt deduce were you not suffering the aftereffects of indulgence and of the _gendarmerie_'s charming hospitality, those questions have one and the same answer. To wit: when word reached me that inquiries were being made about you, I realized that my invitation of last night had inadvertently let you into this fix and so I acted as a gentleman should, to rectify the harm. I engaged Mme. de Langois on your behalf and procured an order of release from Captain Thoubald."

I glanced at Mme. de Langois.

"An order of release? You mentioned nothing of this to Inspector St.-Denis."

She nodded.

"I wished for him to come to the conclusion on his own, without having to use legal force. On the one hand, he will be less inclined to lay traps for you if he genuinely comes to believe that you are most likely innocent. Too, it permits him to save face. St.-Denis is an honest _gendarme_, while his captain is...politically aware, shall we say? My duty is to stand for my clients, but I take no pride in shaming the honorable."

I brushed my fingertips over the scabbed cut at the corner of my mouth and silently begged to disagree with Madame's assessment of _M. l'Inspecteur_ St.-Denis.

"I do not believe," she continued, "that you will be caused any further inconvenience over this matter. Nonetheless, here is my card, should you have any further need of my services." She took a printed square of pasteboard from her reticule and handed it over.

"Thank you. I appreciate all your efforts on my behalf."

"I should hope so. Did you not, then it would hardly justify the substantial fees M. Renard is paying me," she answered with a hint of a smile.

"And you as well, Renard. To put yourself out like this for a near-complete stranger..."

He gestured airily.

"Think nothing of it. Besides, I must bear at least some of the responsibility for what happened to you."

"Because you invited me to that _salon_ in the Quartier Rouge?"

"In part. But that can wait until you've attended to the outer man. The Silver Coach-House has a tolerable restaurant, and after your experiences I'm sure you could make do with one of those excessively-sized breakfasts you Mordentish seem to so favor. Really, is there something in the fog that leeches the energy from you?"

I was no more comfortable discussing "something in the fog" than anyone else from Mordent would be. Such a simple thing, I thought as I looked out the carriage window at the sunswept Boulevard Jardine's broad avenue lined by plane trees, and yet it marked such a difference between lands. Though, as my gore-smeared clothing testified, Dementlieu had horrors of its own.

Renard's carriage brought Mme. de Langois to her offices before reversing course and continuing back north to my inn. My condition received not a few raised eyebrows, but at least there were no delays in preparing a midmorning bath as my reasons for this eccentricity were self-evident. Once I had washed, taken a razor to my chin, and put on decent garb, I felt much more the thing. The corner of my lip was still a bit puffy and my wrists chafed, but rather than truly bothering me these things instead acted as a kind of spur, urging me to know more. I hadn't truly appreciated it in the coach, but now with the relief of my rescue ebbing into the past and my mind refreshed it was obvious that Renard had implied some kind of guilty knowledge beyond a mere sense of responsibility. In a way I was glad that my brain had been fogged by circumstance before—it had been neither the time nor the place for any kind of confrontation—but now I was eager to have answers.

As befitted the premier inn in Chateaufaux, the Silver Coach-House's dining room was both elegant and tasteful, with parquet floor polished to a high gloss, crisp white linens covering the tables and the gleam of silver throwing back the sunlight that streamed through three large bow windows. Two chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, assuring that dining would be no less bright and convivial by night as by day. A servant in crisp black dress and white apron showed me to the table where Renard waited; though her manner was polite there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. No doubt it was only rational after my less-than-presentable condition upon my return, but I found it jarring. I'd had enough of people doubting me—especially that most horrible part when I'd doubted myself.

"There you are. Much more presentable, and in relatively little time, though I suppose with Mordentish fashions it takes no great feat of intellect to plan one's dress. One shade of brown being much the same as another, of course."

"I gather that freshly-opened bottle of wine on the table is your second, then?"

"'_Touche_!' as they cry in the _salle des armes_. I shall restrain my wit in respect for your morning."

"I would appreciate it—particularly as I suspect that I have already had the benefit of your wit last night."

"Not my wit, but Victorine's," he corrected.

"To put it plainly..."

"You were drugged, Jocelyn." He lifted his claret to his lips, and the taste of the wine apparently reminded him of something else about the event, for he added, "A tragic waste of the Barovian 583. Such a vintage should not be casually used for such purposes."

"And you knew about this?"

"Only after the fact, I assure you. Victorine is a beautiful young woman. Few men would consider her company displeasing. Though I really should have guessed it wasn't only the wine going to your head; from my experience you Mordentish take twice as much liquor to get half as drink as anyone else. It _must_ be the fog."

The conversation paused as a waiter approached and I gave my order. He made no comment about the quantity of food requested, though the Dementlieuse typically breakfasted only on coffee or chocolate and some kind of pastry, the Silver Coach-House served enough foreign travelers to be well-prepared for other customs. Once he was gone, Renard continued.

"The sequence of events, then, runs thusly: Mlle. Charest doses your wine with something designed to assist her in overcoming your—I suppose 'maidenly' wouldn't be appropriate—your bachelor virtue, shall we say. Her attempt is successful; whether because of natural or chemical means we cannot say. Only, from some quirk of intoxication you suddenly choose to leave her rooms at perhaps two hours after midnight, stagger blindly through the streets, only to have the truly awful fortune to be at last overcome at the spot where the Quartier Rouge murderer has committed his latest atrocity."

My fortune wasn't as awful as all that, I reflected. In my drugged condition, I would have been utterly helpless had the murderer chosen _me_ as a victim—or had an ordinary gang of footpads, for that matter. Nonetheless, I still wished fondly for the chance to wring Mademoiselle Victorine Charest's pretty neck for all she had done.

"So how did you come into it?" I asked testily. "Not that I don't appreciate the assistance, but you don't strike me as the kind of man who customarily rises before noon, Renard."

He chuckled softly.

"_Touche_ again, and quite true. My valet, however, judged that I should be roused when a young lady sent me a message that you had gone missing."

"So you went looking?" I asked with considerably less belligerence.

"Victorine's note made some oblique reference to what she had done by referring to you being 'in your condition' when you left. I have the most damnable trouble getting back to sleep once I've been awakened, so I thought I'd might as well make inquiries. The rest you know."

Did I? Shorn of its flowery language, it amounted to this: having found me missing when she awoke, the girl had written to Renard, probably because he'd brought me there in the first place. Despite his airs, the languid dandy had deduced what she'd done, taken on responsibility for my well-being, and had used time and energy, plus financial and political influence, to locate me and see me safe, all because he'd introduced me to a girl who'd proven more aberrant in her debaucheries than he'd believed.

When he stopped trying to disguise it with his veneer of _ennui_, Renard's actions seemed to follow that often quoted but rarely observed quality called honor.

My irritation drained away at the realization. Yes, I had been ill-used by circumstance—and considerably more than ill-used by Mlle. Charest—but these were separate matters that could be dealt with at the proper time.

"I know that thanks to your efforts, a bad situation was kept from becoming a good deal worse," I said by way of apology. More than that would likely just embarrass Renard. Then I continued, "As for 'knowing all,' though, no, I cannot agree. There's one part of this business that I have no idea about."

"Oh?"

"I mean these murders in the Quartier Rouge. Having been accused this morning of being the monster responsible, I think I deserve to know what it is I was supposed to have done."


	3. Chapter 3

The waiter, his livery immaculate, set down my breakfast with smooth efficiency and in near silence. Steam rose appetizingly from eggs and sausage as well as from the dark coffee poured from a silver pot. I spread a slice of toast with fresh-churned butter and set to with relish. All the while, though, I was aware of the macabre irony that the hearty meal was being served just as Etienne Renard was going to share the details of a series of bloody killings. Renard, too, seemed to perceive this irony.

"It's surprising that you didn't ask me to wait, so that you could breakfast in peace, but I suppose some things demand immediate attention."

I nodded and washed the toast down with sips of coffee.

"Very well, then. The killings have taken place over a two-week period; with last night's, there were eight in all, or so it is believed."

"Wait...'or so it is believed'? It isn't known?"

"There have been no bodies found, as such. The only traces the killer leaves are pools of spilled blood, and on occasion some personal item such as a walking stick, hat, or package. Thus the precise method of death remains unknown, although it is obviously violent."

"So it isn't even certain that there are eight victims?"

Renard shook his head.

"Not necessarily. Eight crime scenes were found, and the _gendarmes_ were able to establish with reasonable certainty whom the victims were, when persons turn up missing the next day after having been expected to be in the area where the bodies were discovered. Of course, those are not the only people who have disappeared in Chateaufaux, but the law is convinced that they have, at least, identified the dead."

He toyed idly with the stem of his glass.

"The popular press, of course, has made much of things, trumpeting the bloody violence. _Le Loup-garou de Quartier Rouge_ is the most dramatic label assigned to the murderer, but no one is seriously claiming that a lycanthrope is responsible. For one things, the crimes are simply too neat."

"Too _neat_?" I said, astonished. My ruined clothing did not suggest that particular adjective.

"Remember, Jocelyn, there was no trace of the bodies themselves. While Dementlieu is hardly wracked with lycanthropy, the stories are sufficiently familiar for the differences to be clear. We've heard of werewolves making relatively clean kills, of leaving behind horribly mangled corpses, even of"—he paused to shudder delicately—"victims being found half-eaten. Never, though, have victims inevitably been missing entirely, particularly in only a few seconds."

"A few seconds? I'm not sure that I understand."

"There were witnesses to three of the crimes, or at least of their immediate aftermath. Screams were heard, and those that heard them rushed to assist, but found only the blood pool and no sign of a body."

I all but dropped my fork.

"Renard, are you saying that whomever or whatever did this managed to carry away an entire body, leaving virtually no traces that it had been there, in mere seconds?"

He nodded.

"Exactly."

"Apparently, without leaving any kind of physical trace of himself behind."

"That's also the case. Did you have a reason to deduce that, or was it just an assumption?"

"It would make a better story that way, wouldn't it?" I could not resist a grin. "That would have been more appropriate—no clues left behind, no trace of the killer."

"Actually, you'd be surprised how often madmen _do_ leave something of themselves behind. It's in the nature of the thing, I believe; an emotional force so terrible and powerful as to drive a person to slaughter the innocent must always impress itself on the environment in some way. That's why they are called 'signature killers,' because so often they _do_ 'sign' their work with an unique pattern: choice of victim, method of killing, symbolic messages, items left behind."

I was surprised at his knowledge and said so. Renard looked vaguely embarrassed.

"A side effect of living where the printing press was invented, I daresay. I confess to a fearful addiction to sensational literature, fictional or not. One must do something to stave off the endless parade of days of nothing to fill them."

"It must be pleasant to have time on one's hands," I replied laconically. "Still, you have a point. St.-Denis did not spend any time examining my bootprint, measuring the span of my hand, or in any way trying to match me to any _physical_ evidence they may have possessed. Therefore, I have to concede that they have no such evidence. According to you, that is unusual."

"True, true," he mused. "I suppose one could consider the _lack_ of evidence itself to be the pattern, that and the consistent nature of the remains."

He toyed with his knife, twirling it dextrously around his fingers, an air of abstraction lingering on in his features. It was then that I finally recognized the somewhat curious turn the conversation seemed to be taking.

"From the way you're talking, Renard, it almost sounds like you're trying to analyze these killings, not merely reporting their facts."

"Can one help it? Here we are presented with a fascinating puzzle. The known facts are contradictory and inexplicable, a riddle crying out for resolution. Beyond that, people are involved, making it not merely an abstract exercise but a human drama in which lives are at stake. And then, then mind you, it reaches out into my own life by involving my new acquaintance in its web. How can I not think about it? Indeed," he said while tapping his temple with his forefinger, "I have not been able to stop turning it over in my mind since learning of what you were accused." He gave a deep sigh. "I confess it is _most_ irritating. A civilized gentleman should still be abed at this indecent hour, unless an excess of revelry has carried him past the dawn. To be not only awake but engaging in the inexcusable folly of serious brain-work before noon is an affront to decent society everywhere. I am _exceedingly_ put out at this Quartier Rouge spectre."

I surprised myself by chuckling at his manner.

"Shall you challenge it to a duel then, Renard?" I joked. That I could do so was a testament to how much at ease the good food, these luxurious surroundings, and Renard's company had put me at my ease. After what I'd gone through, I was decidedly grateful.

"And why not?" he declared. "Consider it: two gentlemen of leisure pitting our wits against a lunatic fiend stalking the picaresque shadows of _le Quartier Rouge_. A game of intellect and courage. Besides, I have lost sufficient leisure time to this boil on Chateaufaux's face; it is past time we lanced it."

I wasn't sure what astonished me more, Renard's declaration that he was going to hunt down the killer or that he so effortlessly included me in the assertion. As I'd quoted at Mlle. Charest's _salon_, Mordent-folk did not invite evil home for dinner—or in this case, go visiting it on its own terms. Truth be told, I wanted nothing to do with the world I'd glimpsed, of missing persons who silently vanish into pools of blood, of oubliettes and clanking chains.

And yet I knew I wasn't going to leave it at that. Part of it was, admittedly, pride—Renard affected all the superficial characteristics of the Dementlieuse I found distasteful, yet first in honor, now in courage he was proving to possess those attributes in which we Mordentish considered ourselves superior to our "overcivilized" cousins. I did not want to appear at a loss by comparison. Self-interest played a part; what if the disappearances _did_ stop? What kind of whispers would follow me north from Chateaufaux?

These were the feelings I acknowledged at the time. Thoughts of loftier ideals, those I was not willing to admit. Perhaps I just did not want to think of going to my death "because it was the right thing to do."

"Very well; what time shall we begin this excursion?"

"Oh, evening, of course. What other time is fit for a gentleman's entertainment?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Really, Jocelyn, no valet? It's no wonder you Mordentish prefer such...utilitarian garb," Renard said, eyeing my outfit. I'd opted for sturdy traveling wear over the more formal rig-out I'd have worn to a dinner party or the opera. I supposed he had as well; there wasn't _quite_ so much gold braid and ornamental lace in evidence. The twilight sun shone ruddily through the windows of my hotel suite's sitting room, giving his face the disturbing appearance, for a moment, of having been washed in blood.

"I was unaware there was a social protocol for tracking a murdering madman," I replied testily.

"If you remain long enough within our borders, you will learn that someone has at one time or another gone to the trouble of creating a social protocol for everything. A careful examination of a man's cravat during an elopement will tell you if he means to marry the girl or only seduce her." A moment later, his face grew serious. "I beg your pardon, Jocelyn; that was in poor taste, considering."

It was too late to take it back. Waking up in a dungeon cell had had the salutary effect of making me overlook my earlier humiliation, but time, especially time alone, had worn away that barrier. Renard's casual quip had called up memories, sweet in the moment of their making but rancid when looked back upon in their proper perspective.

My face must have revealed my thoughts, for Renard laid a hand on my shoulder.

"There are lines not meant to be crossed, and there are those among us who take the more pleasure in doing so because of it. You were my guest; I should have better looked after your welfare."

"I forgive you," I said, "so long as you do not expect the same indulgence for _her_."

"Please, Jocelyn," his usual manner returned, "do you take me for a priest? I assure you that these vestments are in considerably better taste. Though perhaps you were confused by this?" He touched the brooch he wore as a cravat-pin, the silver sword and alabaster shield of the church of Ezra.

"In my admittedly limited experience, I have not found the Dementlieuse a particularly devout people."

"Nor are we. But there are times when a wise man recognizes that a greater power may be useful."

"And you suspect this may be one of those times?" I said, taken aback.

"No, but it never pays to be unprepared. Should a more tangible response be called for, I presume you are armed?"

I nodded, and swept aside the hem of my coat to reveal a holstered pistol. It had two barrels mounted side by side, marking it as a strictly practical weapon for self-defense rather than a formal duel.

"Good! May I, however, suggest an amendment to that?"

He set his satchel, which had intrigued me since it was so out of place for him, down on the table and opened it. Renard fished out a silk pouch and removed a handful of pistol balls, cast from silver.

"While you slept, I took the opportunity of gathering a few supplies that may prove useful tonight."

"Silver bullets?"

"The traditional ammunition when facing _le loup-garou_, no? To say nothing of a number of other adversaries. I took the liberty of having Professor Gerard place a minor charm on them to counter magical protections."

"He was mentioned last night, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I'm surprised you remember. No doubt he thinks I fear one of our associates intends to cheat in a duel."

I decided to take his advice and reloaded my pistol with the silver ammunition. It couldn't hurt, and one never knew what might help. By the time I finished, the sun was little more than a shadow behind the trees.

"All right, I'm ready," I said, re-holstering the weapon and taking up my walking stick. This wasn't just a social affectation, but a sturdy length of ash-wood whose silver knob could be used as an effective club in a pinch. I'd used it to such effect myself once when attacked by rogues on a foggy Mordentshire byway, but I was far less sanguine about its effectiveness against someone or something capable of making eight people vanish from the streets.

Indeed, by the time we'd gotten far enough along the Boulevard Jardine that Renard had turned left to take us through a gap in the row of plane trees towards a side street, I was beginning to have second thoughts about the entire enterprise. A pampered young noble and a foreign tourist pitting ourselves against something the _gendarmarie_ had been hunting for two weeks without success? It was delusional to think that this was reasonable—and if Renard was correct that we _could_ learn something the militia had overlooked, then was it not pure madness to rush into its lair?

I felt my hand clenching involuntarily on the knob of my cane, and was glad that custom dictated the wearing of gloves even on a warm summer night as this, so that I did not show my white-knuckled cowardice to Renard's all-too-keen eye.

The Old Quarter of Chateaufaux was mostly made up of three-story terraced buildings, clustered together like walls of the narrow, maze-like streets. Shop-signs creaked in the breeze and a thin mist wove its way silently through the by-ways.

"This section of the city was once inhabited by the local nobility and gentry," Renard said, indicating the buildings around us with a sweep of his cane. "Over time, as Chateaufaux became more prosperous and spread outwards, it became more practical to live on one's estates full-time or in the alternative to move one's townhouse closer to the government centers on the Boulevard. The homes of the wealthy became shops for merchants, with plenty of space for workshops below and residences above, or tenements where a dozen families could live. Perhaps a third of the buildings are simply abandoned, no doubt still owned by nobles who have all but forgotten them; one could almost be in Richemulot."

I could see definite signs of the history he mentioned. The decor of buildings, gables, and other features showed the exaggerated sense of the ornate that only came with the amusements of the wealthy. Gargoyles crouched in the edges of the high, flat roofs or roared open-mouthed at the base of rainspouts, and the wrought-iron fences that surrounded certain larger houses often included a variety of patterned artwork beneath their bristling spikes: crouching animals, ornate flowers, clawed and taloned beasts, and arcane-looking symbols that were probably family crests. The streets were shadowy; lampposts were few and far between and many were unlit. It seemed that the lamplighters had better sense than we did.

Renard only chuckled when I pointed this out.

"It's probably best that way. The skies are clear, and we won't need the glare of light to see by and ruin our night vision. I brought a dark-lantern"—he patted the satchel slung over his shoulder—"but I don't think we shall need it just yet."

He turned a corner onto a side street and I followed.

"You seem to know where you're going, Renard," I commented.

"I do. We're going to the alley off the Rue Eglise where you had your unfortunate encounter last night."

"The scene of the last disappearance? To look for evidence, you mean?"

"Exactly so."

"But St.-Denis and hus men will have already made a thorough search, in mass and no doubt by daylight besides."

Renard chuckled dryly.

"You show great faith in the investigative abilities of a man who had _you_ under lock and key for these murders this past morning, Jocelyn."

"True, but even I can see that had more to do with panic than any real belief in my guilt. Your Dementlieuse _gendarmes_ have a good reputation for their skill, even across the border."

"Yes, well, this is not Port-a-Lucine, where they have the instructive example—and the constant challenge—of the 'Great Detective' Alanik Ray to inspire them. I have a suspicion that there is more to discover if we use our wits. Ah! And here we are."

There was nothing about the short, broad alley to separate it from any of the others we'd seen or walked down. Even I, who had stumbled into the gory aftermath last night, could not say that this was the scene."

"How do you know, Renard?"

"You forget, I was with Mme. de Langois when we questioned Captain Thoubald and obtained your release order."

"But there are no traces."

"No, undoubtedly St.-Denis had his men wash away the blood. He could not simply leave it be in this populated area. Still, we needn't let that stop us."

"Oh?"

"No, indeed. Well, at least if Chouinard's alchemical concoctions work as advertised."

He opened his satchel and took out a glass flask filled nearly to the stopper with some sort of powder.

"Apparently it works on the principle that traces of blood are exceedingly difficult to wash away. Even when a surface has been thoroughly scrubbed, some too miniscule to see with the naked eye apparently remain."

"It all sounds like witchcraft to me."

"The reason, no doubt, why so many so-called scientific pioneers migrate to Dementlieu. We may point and laugh, but at least we do not call for the rope or stake."

He uncorked the flash and with quick shakes began to scatter the powder across the cobblestones. In many places it lay there like dust, but in others the particles seemed to stick, then to shine with a pale green luminescence, a ghostly glow that reminded me of nothing so much as the eerie gaseous exhalations that sometimes rose from the moors and bogs of my homeland. A good half the vial was emptied before Renard restoppered it and put it away.

"Ha! Look at that," he exclaimed, grabbing my arm and pointing. "Do you see, Jocelyn?"

I had to admit that I did not. He shook his head with a sigh.

"The blood, of course. There's a large pool here, the actual spot of the attack, but there aren't any foot-marks or other signs...except here, which was obviously where you fell. There's some spatter, probably cast off by the strike...but see this, here?"

"It looks like another spray, from a claw or knife," I said, my gorge faintly rising. The luminous glow was strange, but thinking of it in terms of spilled blood from wounds gave it an entirely different complexion.

"No, no, it's a definite trail. The problem is that it extends only a few feet and stops, so it blends in with the others. Still, if I can recognize it for what it is, the _gendarmes_ should have done the same. Eight examples of this, and they come up with nothing. My father's gamekeeper could have done a better job." He grinned, then added in his usual languid drawl, "Listen to me go on. _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_'s incompetence is making me positively civic-minded."

He dipped into what I was starting to think of as his bag of tricks once more, coming up with a folded document of some kind. He crouched next to the stain, using the glow to see by, and made a notation on what I realized was a map of some kind. I was about to ask him what he was doing when light washed across us.

"_Sacre!_ Do not move, you monsters, or we will cut you down where you stand!"


	5. Chapter 5

Four uniformed _gendarmes_ filled the alley mouth, their leader carrying a sturdy iron lantern similar to those used by watchmen in Mordent. Three of the men held drawn sabers, while the fourth carried a loaded and cocked crossbow, not quite so powerful a weapon as a pistol but considerably more accurate and reliable, and at this range equally deadly.

It was not the weapons that frightened me, though, so much as the white faces of the militia, twisted with fear and hate. The righteous fury was the same as I'd seen marking the law officers when I'd been under arrest, from St.-Denis on down. Here on the streets of the _Quartier Rouge_, though, the anger was secondary to the fear that had birthed it.

Fear would cause a person to lash out much faster than hatred alone, and in a group that fear would feed off the others'.

"Identify yourselves! What are you doing here?"

"My name is Etienne Renard, son of the Marquis de Perigon. My friend and I are engaged in an experiment, as you can see." He gestured at the fading glow on the cobbles.

"An experiment?" barked the lead _gendarme_. "What kind of hellish magic do you call an _experiment_?" He led his men towards us, saber raised. One of the watchmen pointed his blade in my direction, the trembling steel throwing off reflected flashes from the leader's lantern. Renard, though, showed neither fear nor hesitation.

"One, Sergeant, which does not offend the law, and thus which is none of your concern," he said in his haughtiest manner, then pressed two gloved fingers against the saber-tip and guided it away from his face. "I should think that in the present circumstances you and your men have better things to do with your time than importuning decent citizens."

I was amazed by the arrogance and self-assurance Renard showed in the face of the patrol, and more so by what followed. The sergeant hawked a gob of phlegm into the street, just missing Renard's boot.

"Decent? I doubt that very much. But we'll bring you and your friend along to the guardhouse, and then we'll see if you're just a couple of pampered fops getting a sick evening's amusement, or something else. Jean-Paul, take his bag."

"Rest assured that Inspector St.-Denis _will_ hear of your discourtesy," Renard said as he slipped the satchel off his shoulder and passed it to one of the _gendarmes_. "Come, Jocelyn, we seem to have an escort for the evening, though unfortunately not so charming or attractive as we might hope."

As the sergeant led us away down the alley, I began to understand what Renard had done. By acting the part, he'd identified himself as a _type_, a particular and well-known figure—moreover, one the _gendarmes_ would in normal circumstances be inclined to obey. The sergeant's fear might make him challenge Renard, but we were no longer dangerous unknowns. Instead, we were the pampered nobility enjoying morbid thrills visiting the crime scene.

That assessment could change, I thought, if the _gendarmes_ learned that I was the suspect who'd been arrested the night before. The attitude of the official mind under such circumstances...the evidence proving my innocence would have to be very strong indeed.

These morbid thoughts occupied me as we made our way through the Old Quarter's streets. Though I rapidly lost track of the twists and turns I got the general impression that we were moving away from the center of town rather than towards it. The guardhouse the sergeant had mentioned must have been a local one rather than the militia headquarters where I'd found myself this morning. Was it for convenience's sake, so the _gendarmes_ could resume their patrol as soon as possible? Or else...the thought suddenly struck me that a militia patrol would be an excellent cover for a group of murderers who would kill, then remove the body. A lack of a blood trail could be explained by the corpses being wrapped in some shroud, then carried off by two or more men together.

The idea made me pay much closer attention to the men around me. Luckily they had not taken the time to search us and so I still carried my pistol under my long Mordentish coat. Its presence brought me comfort, even as my doubts grew, and I had to fight off the reflexive urge to rest my hand on its grip.

The streets of the Old Quarter seemed all but deserted as we passed through them. Even when we did see other people, they would scuttle quickly from door to door, keeping close to the line of buildings, and an eerie stillness pervaded all. The notable exception was the taverns; bright light blazed forth from their windows and a raucous cacophony poured forth from each one, whether music and cheers or shouts, raised voices, and the shattering of glass.

_Scared people,_ I realized, _trying hard to live in spite of their fear._ The hard, brittle edge underlying the revelry told all.

We had just passed another of those taverns when a piercing scream rent the night air. We all stood, shocked to the core by the terrified cry, and then as one the sergeant, Renard, and the _gendarme_ with the crossbow took off running towards the sound. I was off after them a moment later, with the last two militiamen trailing reluctantly. We went down half a block, then turned right into a side street. No doors or windows had been thrown open to look; if there was anyone in the nearby houses they were cowering inside, unwilling to involve themselves.

"_Sacre_!" exclaimed the sergeant. "We got here in only twenty-five, thirty seconds, no more!"

The light from his lantern plunged out across cobblestones stained wetly with fresh-spilled blood. Nothing else remained to suggest who had screamed, or what had made the screaming stop.

~X X X~

"_C'est impossible_," the sergeant muttered under his breath, shaking his head in amazement. "A moment ago there was a woman here, alive, in danger, and now—nothing! No victim! No killer! Where could they have gone to so quickly?" His face looked sallow and strained in the lamplight, the shock of the incident having clearly affected him deeply. By arresting Renard and myself, he had asserted some control over the situation—and his own fear—but now that control had been snatched away.

"It seems to me that there's only one possibility," I spoke up. "The killer must have taken his victim into one of these nearby buildings. That's the only way he"—or _it—_"could have gotten out of sight."

"That's right, and we will search them from top to bottom. Jean-Paul, Marcel, remain here and arrest anyone who tries to flee out of the buildings. Alain and I will search."

"Sergeant, given this rather nauseating proof of our innocence, do you think my friend and I can be on about our business?" Renard drawled. "I mean, it's all well and good to be fashionably late, but there _are_ limits, and we are expected."

The sergeant growled.

"Yes, yes, get out of here."

Renard held out his hand towards the _gendarme_ carrying his satchel; after a moment it was passed back. The sergeant was already pounding on the first door with the hilt of his saber when we left the side street.

"Well, that was a stroke of good luck," Renard summed up.

"Yes, one night chained in a cell was quite enough for me, though I wouldn't call another murder _lucky_."

Renard shook his head.

"There is that, but it isn't what I meant. The chance to see fresh evidence that all but confirms my theories! And I must commend you, Jocelyn, on your quick thinking. Distracting the _gendarmes_ with such a plausible lie will keep them from interfering while we continue our investigation."

I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

"A lie? Renard, what are you talking about?"

"When you advised them to search the nearby buildings, of course. It was the only thing you said, wasn't it? I doubt I could have managed it half so believably."

"I wasn't lying, Renard."

He stopped and looked at me curiously.

"Truly?"

"Yes!" I snapped back.

"Well, then, I must congratulate you even more, for you complemented my wishes to perfection without even knowing what they were. Quite extraordinary. Hm, I think we are far enough away, now."

He stopped beneath one of the few lit street-lamps and took out his map again.

"I wish we could have taken at least a compass bearing; I'm relying too much upon the precision of the mapmaker. Fortunately it was produced by a Chateaufaux firm, so I think it is as trustworthy as we can hope for. Now, the trail pointed towards around two-thirds up the front of the second building on the left..." He made another notation. "Three points would be better; I doubt they named the process 'triangulation' just because someone had an affection for the polygon."

"Triangulation..." I murmured, beginning to understand, if dimly, what he was getting at. "Do you mean the spatter of blood you called a trail?"

"Exactly. The fresh crime scene showed exactly the same characteristics, which I must admit was almost a relief. A number of explanations might have produced the effect at the old crime scene."

He used the side of a square vial as a straight-edge and marked two lines on the map.

"If we hypothetically extend the blood trails, we find that the lines cross...here." He drew a circle on the map. "It's obviously imprecise, but I think we can say that the real crossing point is somewhere in the vicinity of Valmont Square."

"But the blood trails don't extend, Renard. They stop. And you extended them in straight lines, but those straight lines pass right through numerous buildings."

"Fortunately, the same explanation answers both of those very good points."

I racked my brain for an answer as I followed Renard through the city streets.

"Renard, those blood trails are so short, it's as if the bodies vanished into thin air!"

"Quite," he agreed.

"You can't be suggesting that the killer was some kind of ghost or spirit that manifests only to slay, then retrieves the corpses intangibly, passing through walls."

Renard burst into laughter which echoed off the nearby buildings and probably frightened those carousing inside.

"Now that is such a delightfully Mordentish answer, though at least ingenious and not directly at odds with the facts. Still, there is an easier answer."

"What?" I asked bluntly.

"Ah, here we are, Valmont Square. Now, Jocelyn, you'll have a chance to see for yourself."


	6. Chapter 6

Valmont Square was almost a relief from the rest of the Old Quarter. The streets opened up into a large, open area surrounded by some of the tallest houses I'd seen thus far in Chateaufaux. A statue of a mounted rider brandishing a saber dominated the plaza's center. The claustrophobic feeling that prevailed throughout _le Quartier Rouge_ had eased, though my nerves were at a fever pitch. Renard's high-handed manner was getting to me, but I could tell that in my heart I believed him; the way the hairs on the back of my neck prickled were mute evidence of that.

"You wouldn't know, Jocelyn, but Valmont Square is the traditional dueling ground in Chateaufaux," he said conversationally. "These abandoned mansions all belonged to the greatest families of the city, and instead of slinking off to some quiet spot for their challenges of honor, they would brazenly walk out and face one another in open view. Of course, now that the former owners are gone, the square _is_ a quiet spot to slink off to, but some poetic license is only natural."

He pointed with his stick across the square.

"We'll go that way."

We cut across the square at the sauntering pace of two idlers out and about. I didn't understand, but played along with what mush have been a ruse. It was not until we reached the far side of the square, directly beneath the edges of the crumbling townhouses, that he grabbed my arm and hurried me down two doors.

"This one," he said very softly, and went up to the door. I didn't know how he knew; there was nothing amiss, no marks or trails of blood. From across the square the house had seemed just another baroquely ornamented mansion irregularly studded with winged beasts.

The door was locked, but Renard had it open in moments with the aid of a skeleton key. I wondered idly what sort of friends he had, to be able to obtain a common thief's tool. He opened the door carefully, so that it did not creak, and we slipped into the house.

"That's better," he said, almost sighing.

"You acted like you were afraid of being seen."

"I was."

"But anyone watching would have seen us slip along to this house as well, unless they were on the roof."

Renard nodded. He'd set down his satchel and was busy lighting a dark-lantern similar although smaller to the one the _gendarme_ sergeant had carried.

"That's exactly right. It's the roof where our killer is waiting."

The light flared up, and Renard closed the door behind us.

"Though I suspect 'killers' is more accurate."

"More than one? A group? But how?" By the bright light of the lantern I could see that a thick layer of dust covered the floor, the ornamental table, and the door handles. "No one's been in here for years. We're the only ones who have disturbed the dust."

"That's what I'd hoped to find."

"Renard, if you know what's responsible for these crimes and you could establish it from the evidence, why didn't you bring the _gendarmes_ with us?"

"Because they wouldn't have been any use, other than to waste their lives getting in the way."

Then, having played out the game for as long as he could without putting me in the direct path of danger, he explained everything to me. There was speculation, even guesswork involved, but...

"Now do you see why I couldn't bring along those militiamen?"

"You could have gone to St.-Denis and had him arrange a proper task force."

Renard's lip curled up in an arrogant sneer.

"That fool? Mme. de Langois may have some affection for his honesty, but I do not. After the way he treated you, I am surprised that you would, either. I find it quite fitting that we shall resolve in a day what he and his men have embarrassed themselves over for two weeks."

"Presuming that we survive."

"There is that, but what is life without a bit of sport?"

"Life," I replied dryly, and drew my pistol.

We proceeded through the foyer to the main hall and up the sweeping grand staircase. The house was as dark and close as a tomb, the atmosphere thick and foul from having been closed up for so long. The staircase stopped on the third floor; we had to hunt for the back stairs that led to the attics. It was fortunate that the house was in relatively good condition; a rotted-out floor or balustrade could have meant death in as certain if less melodramatic a way as at the hands of a killer.

The trapdoor to the roof was bolted on the inside; Renard slid it back and pushed the door open. I was so glad to be out of the choking dust that I took a deep breath of the cool night air and nearly gagged on the stench of putrefication. The corpses-or at least torn bits and pieces of them, amid cracked and stripped bones-were strewn across the roof.

Renard set down the lantern and drew his silver-chased dueling pistol.

"Four," he said softly. One for each corner of the house. Only the ornate gargoyles weren't perched at the four corners, but crouched at irregular intervals along the roof's edge. It was the asymmetry that had identified the house for Renard. He'd told me what to expect, and yet when the gargoyles turned to face us, eyes burning the sickly yellow of a hag's moon, I found myself frozen, unable to move. A rivulet of drool trailed from one fanged mouth as they slowly moved, flexing their claws as if waking. Horned and winged, each slightly different from the last, they looked as if they were carved from stone even as their bodies moved.

Renard raised his pistol, and the gargoyles exploded into motion, proving their slow movements to have been only a ruse. He pivoted out of the way to his left and fired as the creature hurtled towards him. The ball punched into the side of its head; despite its flexibility the rocklike hide cracked and shattered like chips of stone, the wound weeping a sickly yellowish ichor.

In the next instant I lost track of what was happening to him when one of the gargoyles reached me. Its claws ripped into my shoulder as it bore me to the ground. I nearly gagged on its reeking breath as it snapped its fangs, just missing my face, but the cold, sharp pain of the slashes broke the spell of fear and I fought desperately. My stick was gone, dropped in the rush of the gargoyle's attack, but I pushed with my injured arm and my legs, trying to create space. One of its hindclaws grazed my shin, but I managed to twist my right hand around and fire my pistol. The gargoyle shrieked in shock and pain as the silver ball opened a wound along its side, and I worked the muzzle of the gun up in under its jaw and dischargeded the second barrel.

With no time to relax, I squirmed out from under the monster. Its corpse was hard and stiff already, like a statue, but if so it was a hollow statue because it lacked the full weight of stone and I was able to get free.

Renard was engaged with one of the gargoyles, a light, slender sword in his hand. I recognized the hilt as being the handle of his walking stick; the weapon was a sword-cane. He was using it well to fend off one of the gargoyles, dodging the monster's claws and giving it a taste of the sword's stinging, biting tip whenever it tried to close. The last remaining monster, however, was stalking towards him from behind. I seized up my walking stick and brought the silver knob down hard on the back of the gargoyle's head, just to the left of a row of spines that ran from the crown of its head to the tailbone.

It was like trying to batter through a brick wall. Our pistols' effectiveness and that of Renard's cane had deceived me; the stick snapped off in my hand without making the slightest mark on the creature. My attack did serve the purpose of taking the gargoyle's attention away from Renard; it pivoted with a hateful screech and ripped its claws through my clothes and across my chest with a sweep of its arm.

Renard's sword pierced the throat of the gargoyle he faced and it staggered away, choking on its own ichor. He then turned and thrust, piercing the back of the final monster even as it was leaping upon me. Its weight bore me down to the roof, but it was dead weight.

"Jocelyn, are you all right?" Renard asked, pushing the dead gargoyle off me. He offered me a hand up, and I winced when I reached up with my injured arm, then lowered it and extended the right one instead.

"Largely," I said, breathing heavily. "They're flesh wounds, I think. Besides, you'd probably consider it a good thing. Between the claw slashes and the bloodstains, this coat is finished."

~X X X~

"It was really the most obvious answer," Renard said, leaning back lazily in his seat. "The bodies had to go _somewhere_. There are, of course, a variety of esoteric or genuinely supernatural ways of doing that, but I considered that unlikely."

"Why?" I asked, tossing the folded broadsheet onto the cafe table. If one was to believe the popular press, we were heroes, although there were also questions being asked about the effectiveness of the _gendarmerie_ and their willingness to protect the ordinary citizens from something two people had dealt with in one night.

"The blood left at the scenes spoke to the brute physicality of the attacks. I could imagine some monster swallowing victims whole or a spirit taking a person into the ether, but not after spilling such amounts of blood. I therefore deduced the existence of a creature striking from above and claiming the bodies for food, but one capable of concealing its nest in the midst of the city, which is not so easy."

"Why didn't you tell me what you suspected?"

Renard sipped his coffee.

"Really, Jocelyn, do you genuinely expect me to prose on like I was Alanik Ray, plucking deductions from thin air, and then find that the evidence proves me wrong?"

"I suppose not. But you were confident enough to bring along enspelled ammunition, to say nothing of your sword-cane."

"The cane is a family heirloom," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "As for the ammunition, consider it a way for Professor Gerard to make amends."

"Amends?"

"It was largely his fault, after all." Seeing my confusion, he prodded, "The magical duel he fought? In Valmont Square? We were chaffing Claudine about it at Victorine's _salon_. The killings began immediately after the duel. My suspicion is that those gargoyles had been perching on that abandoned mansion for decades, perhaps centuries, until a stray counterspell set them free. The professor, as has been noted, is an expert in counter-magical effects."

"Wait, but if that was the case, why were they entrapped there in the first place?"

"Well, one must keep up with architectural fashion when one is a leader in society. It's most important that a home in that _passe_ baroque style have as _lifelike_ gargoyles as possible."

I chuckled at the absurdity of the idea-but then again, given the extravagance of some Dementlieuse nobles, perhaps it wasn't absurd after all.

Across the street at the Silver Coach-House, a large stage was pulling from the stableyard around to the door.

"Well, I dare say that is your coach. The charms of Port-a-Lucine await. I suppose that after debauched noblewomen, brutish _gendarmes_, and feasting gargoyles, you will not be too displeased to bid our quaint little town farewell."

I stood and extended my hand to him.

"You forgot 'new friends,' Renard."

His face brightened, but he did not shake my hand, instead pressing a card into it. A name and address were printed there.

"Then please, with a friend's compliments."

"What is it?"

Renard smirked.

"My Port-a-Lucine tailor, Jocelyn. Friendship carries burdens, you know, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to embarrass me by the association."

~X X X~

_A/N: The original inspiration for this story comes from an old AD&D 1st Edition product, __The Book of Lairs__. This consisted of one and two-page encounters with various creatures, for a DM to drop into a campaign (indeed, some even in an established adventure). Most of them were straightforward enough, but the "Gargoyle" encounter (written, I believe, by James R. Ward), caught my attention. A murder mystery in an urban setting, but one solved through a "wilderness" skill (essentially tracking the murderer) and one where the "killer" was a monster out for food rather than a madman with a scheme framed in human terms._

(I do wonder if Clark Ashton Smith's "The Maker of Gargoyles" was part of the original author's inspiration for this story, though I hadn't read it back then, and the positive resolution of the encounter by heroic PCs is of course no part of Smith's story.)

I actually wrote it into a story sometime around 1990, making it into a mystery starring Jocelyn Altariel, a half-elf Sherlock Holmes of his fantasy world. The less said about that the better, but _it is where Alec's last name comes from._

The idea to turn it into a Ravenloft story came after I got a copy of Gazetteer III in 2006. The presence of Alanik Ray in Port-a-Lucine was probably the triggering act. The "Gargoyle" encounter has more than a little of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" in it (murder mystery committed by non-sentient creature), and the idea of turning it into that kind of case, set in a crumbling, decaying Paris-like society, solved by a Dupin analogue came to me strongly. It got moved south to Chateaufaux simply because I couldn't have it in Port-a-Lucine or I'd have to explain why Alanik Ray hadn't solved it long before Jocelyn and Renard came to investigate (and "he was out of town on another investigation" seemed like such a cop-out...). Like the short stories of "Moonlight and Mists," "Quartier Rouge" was originally posted on the Fraternity of Shadows forum's fanfiction section; I hope the new audience here enjoys it...Happy Halloween! 


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